


I'll Make You Fall in Love

by take_ninetynine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brief Vaguely-Mentioned Sex, Case Fic, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/take_ninetynine/pseuds/take_ninetynine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows this neighborhood, the classy two-story enigmas on the hill: they gossip of it in hushed whispers after the kids have gone to bed, and no one knows what to make of it. All the women knit their eyebrows at the thought, and all the men promise their partners "no baby, I would never do that to you."</p>
<p>But it happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Make You Fall in Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Writing Challenge for May 2016. Song Prompt: "Black Magic" by Little Mix.
> 
> Thanks a million and one to anotherwinchesterfangirl for being the best beta ever.

There’s a knock at the door, a loud, frantic kind of knocking that doesn’t stop after a few seconds. In fact it doesn’t stop at all, not until the door is opened. It’s a woman, shouting through thick tears because the man who opened the door is her husband, but this isn’t their house. Everyone knows this neighborhood, the classy two-story enigmas on the hill: they gossip of it in hushed whispers after the kids have gone to bed, and no one knows what to make of it. All the women knit their eyebrows at the thought, and all the men promise their partners _no baby, I would never do that to you._

But it happens.

“I’ve been looking for you for over a _week_ ,” the frantic woman sobs; her dark hair is askew and her makeup streaks down her pale face. Her husband looks at her in confusion, holds his body in obvious discomfort at the scene she’s causing. “You don’t come home after work, you turn off your phone. I thought you were missing, or lying in a ditch somewhere—Marcie keeps asking when her daddy is coming back... And then yesterday, Megan sees you driving up _here_ , and coming into—into—” She waves angrily at the house on the hill, as though they could forget where they’re standing. “What the hell are you _doing_ here, Mark?”

Mark swallows hard, but he doesn’t reply. “I can’t talk right now.” He starts to close the door, but Sally catches it with her arm.

“Like hell you can’t,” she snaps, but her sorrow outweighs her anger. “Just tell me why,” she pleads, struggling to compose herself and failing. “Just tell me _why_ —I thought you loved me.”

“...I’m sorry, Sally. Don’t come here again.”

Sally’s scream as he closes the door in her face is a mixture of rage and sorrow. Rather than leave, she collapses with a wail on the doorstep, drawing all kinds of attention. But no one comes out to help her, to make sure she’s all right. The residents of the neighborhood are used to scenes like this. Once they realize the voice is coming from their own street, they know exactly what happened. And they ignore it.

Mark sighs from his side of the door, wondering whether he should open it again and tell her to leave. But before he does, he hears his name in a soothing tone, and he turns to see a dark-haired beauty standing behind him, her face full of concern. “Sophia,” he breathes, the stress of the situation melting away in her presence.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She wraps her arms around his shoulders and hugs him close to her; he rests a hand on her back and hesitates for a moment before responding.

“It’s my wife... She wants me to go home.”

Sophia pulls back to look at him with big doe eyes, batting her long eyelashes. “What do you mean? You _are_ home.”

Mark smiles lovingly down at her—a love that was missing when he spoke to his wife just moments before. “I know.” He pulls her in for a warm kiss, and Sophia knots her hands in his hair. He picks her up and starts to carry her towards the stairs, but she stops him for a moment and asks, “You’ll never leave me, will you? You’ll never go back to her?”

“No, baby,” he replies, shocked that she even said such a thing. “I would never do that to you.”

— — — — —

It’s a blissful existence, so much better than the lives that her ancestors made for themselves. Luring men and women to their deaths on the sea by their voices might’ve satisfied back then, but this is the modern world. Sirens don’t sing for their supper anymore. It’s a game to her, one she’s damn good at too: find one she likes, lure him to her, gain his complete and utter devotion. Keep him in a house on the hill like the others. And when she grows bored of him, she’ll kill him like so many before him. But not today. Not even tomorrow. They’re too pretty to kill so flippantly.

As she lays on her back in their big shared bed, listening to the gorgeous sounds of Mark’s breathing in his sleep, she smiles; as she glances over at him, taking in his chiselled naked chest and the way the sheet rests around his hips, she shivers. She slides slowly out of the bed so as not to disturb him, tip-toeing over to the closet. She puts on fresh underwear and a bra, and is just wriggling into a pair of jeans when Mark’s voice startles her. “Where are you headed tonight?” He’s standing naked behind her, and she tries to keep her eyes on his saddened face.

“Pittsburgh,” she answers, continuing to get dressed.

“How long of a flight is that?” he asks with a yawn.

She thinks for a moment. “Maybe an hour from Flagstaff to Phoenix… then almost four and a half to Pittsburgh from there.”

He hums in response; she shrugs into a soft yellow shirt and does up the buttons. “How do I look?” she asks, mostly just to fill the heavy pause.

“Beautiful as always,” he answers immediately. “But you could see that for yourself if you got a mirror in here.”

She giggles. “Then what would I have you for?”

“Well…” He makes a not-so-subtle reference to the fact that while she’s fully dressed, he still is not; she rolls her eyes but smiles. The joke fades from his face as he says, “I hate how much time you spend away.”

“I know, baby,” she croons, stepping forward to hug him tight. “But it’s my job… and I always come back, don’t I?”

Mark smiles and nods. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She puts him back to bed, takes up her bag containing her uniform and an extra set of clothes, and slips into her shoes. Once the door’s locked behind her, she steps silently around the house to the backyard, opening the shed door without a sound and dropping the bag again unceremoniously. This is the only non-“blissful” part, the only part that’s still a lot of work. Quickly she strips out of the clothes she put on just minutes before, and she takes a deep breath and steadies herself as she begins.

All at once she begins to change: her wavy hair frizzes out and turns black as the night outside; her skin darkens and the few beauty marks near her eyes disappear. Her hips grow a little wider and her legs grow a little longer. Finally the very features of her face begin to shift, growing and shrinking and rearranging. That’s the part that hurts the most, but she doesn’t make a single sound. Instead she waits it out, and when she’s done she lets herself a few seconds to gasp for air. The woman in the shed is unrecognizable from the woman in the bedroom just a few moments ago—just the way it needs to be.

She shoves the jeans and yellow shirt into her bag and roots around for ones that will fit this body instead. No flight attendant’s uniform is among the articles; just varying shirts and pants, socks and shoes, various styles of delicates, plus one tight skirt that _really_ interests a certain man in particular. Eventually she’s got all the pieces for a new outfit: black jeans, a red fitted t-shirt, white sandals. With her work complete, she zips the bag again and steals into the night. She doesn’t go to the car, or back into the house. Instead she heads down the road, two houses away, and unlocks the front door with a key.

Aside from the layout being a bit rearranged, this house is identical to the one she just left. The same style of furniture, set up the same way in the same rooms. And of course, no mirrors. She climbs the stairs and turns down the hall to the double doors on the right, as though she were walking back to the bedroom where she had just left Mark.

A dark-skinned man with very short hair sleeps unaware of her presence; she smiles softly as she surveys him. She steps over to sit on the empty side of the bed and places a hand on his shoulder. “Tom,” she whispers, shaking him gently. “Guess who, babe?”

Tom groans at being disturbs, but as he rolls over and opens his eyes that melts away, and he grins when he realizes who it is. “Emma.”

— — — — —

They’re enigmas all right, the beautiful women who live in the beautiful houses on the hill. Depending on who you ask, they’re little more than a myth. People aren’t sure how they all know one another, or why they all arrived outside Flagstaff together, or why they all purchased such similar houses so close together. They aren’t even quite sure of the women’s names, because they keep mostly to themselves and almost never come into town; most of the time they don’t seem to be home. People only know their reputation.

The women didn’t bring any men with them, no boyfriends or husbands or even brothers. No one knows how they do it, but somehow even the most faithful, loving partners suddenly disappear, only to be found living with one of the women on the hill, uncaring about the home and family they left behind. Their former partners are heartbroken of course, but what can they do? Cheating isn’t illegal. There’s nothing the cops can do to bring the men home, because the women aren’t doing anything wrong. And if they’ve been gone for long enough, sometimes the men even break up with their new girlfriends. But they don’t come home, opting to leave town in the night instead of facing the shame of it. Nobody hears from them again after that.

It’s just a fact of living here. It’s like a car accident or a deadly disease, the kind of thing that changes your life and gathers sympathy and collects _that’s so sad_ s. But everyone thinks _it’ll never happen to me._

That’s what she lets them believe.

“I’m so happy you made it today, love,” Roger says, leading her into the dining room with his hands over her eyes. “I did something really special to welcome you home.” He moves his hands away from her face to reveal homemade gyros and roasted potatoes on two plates before her.

She gasps excitedly. “Oh, you remembered!”

“There’s baklava in the kitchen,” he adds with a pleased smile. “Happy six-month anniversary.”

She turns around to beam at him, her short brown bob swishing around her face with the movement. “You are so sweet to me.”

He kisses her forehead. “I’d do anything for you, Clara,” he says, pulling out her chair and motioning for her to take a seat.

— — — — —

Mark likes exotic women. That’s such a horrible way to put it, but it’s the only word he can think of to describe the shallow picture in his mind. Olive skin, dark hair, almond-shaped eyes that make him swoon when they wink. Someone whose touch makes him shiver with excitement and anticipation, who he hates to see leave but loves to watch walk away. And _never_ someone taller than he is. His wife, Sally, was always paler than he thought he’d like and only two inches shorter than him, but he cared for her nonetheless, and his six-year-old daughter Marcie with her fiery red hair.

Tom is more of a “strong woman” type, the woman who _don’t need no man_ but is perfectly happy having one anyway. He wants a partner in crime, someone who challenges but respects and understands him. Appearance isn’t a big deal to him, but dark skin and a natural look never hurt. Tricia was always _too_ strong, borderline control freak. They weren’t even married and already she’d had him on a tight leash that he was only too eager to chew through.

Roger wants someone kinky, when you get right down to it. He likes having fun in the bedroom and isn’t shy about it. But he’s not a big “manly man” who needs to dominate a woman in bed every night. He can’t see himself embracing cars and sports at this late a stage, preferring to enjoy a meal he cooked for his partner before going upstairs and pleasing her in all the dirty ways she likes it. Short hair is more his thing—that and a spankable ass in a tight skirt. Lucy was too meek to be enjoyable, and she never wanted to take her turn at the helm, preferring to let him make the decisions every time they made love. Talk about boring.

She plays the part for all of them, depending on the night, and they tell her exactly which part to play without even knowing it. A skill to perfectly ensnare her prey, reading the thoughts that they would never tell another soul, exactly what it takes to make them forget they’re looking for the perfect girl and realize _it’s been you all along._

They’re all so hot but so stupid, never suspicious of the fact that she spends more time away from home than there with them. Flight attendants spend a lot of time on planes, naturally; architecture consultants have to inspect construction sites, and sometimes those sites are located across state lines; office software trainers are specialists and therefore small in number, but offices are a growing staple and all of them needed to learn. All three of them are so loving and understanding, it’s almost too easy.

They do anything she asks because they love her so much. They leave their partners because it’s love at first sight. They move in with her immediately because life is short. They quit their jobs because she makes enough money for the both of them. They stay content to be trophy boyfriends because she’s everything they’ve ever wanted. They don’t leave the house because they have everything they need at home. And she’ll _be back soon, I promise._

But she’s only a property line away.

It’s Tom’s night tonight, the first night of a whole weekend, and she has plans for a special rendezvous when she gets back from the apartment complex in Nevada. People whisper as she walks into the restaurant and up to the counter, trying not to look obvious as they wonder _how does she have the nerve to be here_ and _whose husband did she steal_ and _but are we sure she lives on the hill_?

She places a to-go order with the teenaged boy working the register; he’s too interested in making sure he keeps his job than listening to what people are asking one another about his customer. Once she’s handed over the money and put her change in the tip jar, she moves off to the side to wait—and overhears a conversation that makes her hair stand on end.

“That’s right, agent, months,” a woman is saying in a rushed voice. “I didn’t know what else to do so I just… got on with my life, y’know? We weren’t married, and I haven’t heard from him so—” She sniffles. “I guess that’s relationship over, huh?”

As subtly as she can she turns to see who is speaking; it’s Lucy, struggling to keep tears from falling and clenching a tissue in her small hands. An unbelievably _tall_ man with long brown hair and a suit speaks to her, taking notes on a small notepad. “And you never saw the… woman he moved in with?” he asks her, his voice kind but serious.

“Never.”

“But you’re sure it’s—”

“I’m completely sure! Roger’s not the only one,” Lucy insists. “My neighbor, Mark Something—he left a wife and child behind. She even went to confront him! He answered the door and everything.”

She doesn’t smile as Lucy talks about the ruined lives, because this could spell disaster. Lucy called him “agent:” that means _feds._ Except feds don’t care about cheating boyfriends or absent husbands. And there’s no way a fed would get away with hair that long, even a fed as incredibly _attractive_ as the one before her. He’s lying, but she doesn’t care why or how. Suddenly she knows she _has_ to have him, that it’s time for house number four to welcome him home.

“Excuse me,” she says, breaking her silence and approaching them. “I do _hate_ to interrupt, but… you’re not by any chance talking about that town rumor, are you?” The agent turns to look at her with the most dazzling eyes she’s ever seen, hazel that sparkles with green and gold. She tries not to gasp.

But Lucy glowers at her, suddenly fierce. The agent however seems intrigued. “And you are?” he asks, but Lucy speaks over him.

“It’s not a rumor if I know for sure.” The mousy young woman looks back to the agent. “Please, Agent Hanson, I’m scared for Roger,” she begs. “What if he’s in a cult, or—”

She interrupts Lucy’s whining with a barked laugh. “Forgive Lucy, agent. She always has been a worrisome thing,” she tells him, as though she’s known Lucy all her life. But she knows Lucy better than Lucy could ever guess: she knows her through Roger’s own eyes.

Lucy squints. “Do you know something?”

“Really dear,” she says, “there’s nothing to know.”

Agent Hanson doesn’t look convinced. “I’m not sure that—”

“How can you be certain?” Lucy squeaks; a few more eyes are looking at them now. “Did _your_ boyfriend just up and leave you for someone who wants to keep him locked away in a dollhouse?”

“I don’t have to worry,” she replies haughtily, “about _my_ boyfriend growing _disinterested_.”

That’s the word that sets Lucy off; she’s not strong, and never violent, but she reels back to throw a punch. But two seconds later it’s Agent Hanson who’s holding his lip after the punch goes awry. In all the commotion no one notices Lucy’s actual target grab several napkins from a table and rush to the soda fountain to get some ice.

“Oh no no no, I’m so sorry,” Lucy stammers, “I didn’t—oh please I’m so sorry.” Fear is evident on her face, like she might get arrested for assaulting a government official.

This is the moment, now or never. She doesn’t have time to get him a glass of water, to “wash” the inside with her poison before handing him the drink and letting him dose himself. She has to be even more creative this time—so she spits right in the wet patch of the napkins, where the ice has already begun to melt. Even she can’t see where it landed, but it’s there. She rushes over into the crowd and shoves her way to the center, where Agent Hanson looks very uncomfortable with all the attention. 

“Here you go, sweetheart,” she croons, pressing the ice to the already swelling lump on his lip. He smiles gratefully and takes it from her, holding it there. She watches, waiting, and after a moment he moves it long enough to lick his lips shyly.

She swipes her finished order off the counter and heads out the door before the agent can get another look at her.

— — — — —

Sam is even more of an enigma than she is. When she searches his brain for thoughts of love she doesn’t find a girlfriend, a wife, a lover; she doesn’t even really find a _type_. She finds a brother who he’d do anything for and who would do anything for him; she finds a father who was strict but caring; she finds a swirl of sadness and the mention of a mother he never knew. Love might be harder than she expected for this one.

The best thing she finds is a young woman with spiraling blonde curls, paint under her fingernails, and an expression like she has more questions than she could ever ask. His feelings for her are almost like a flame, but there’s a sadness there too, a yearning for something lost. There’s a burning passion for freedom surrounding her, like she was the answer to a craving he’d had for years.

She doesn’t know what to make of it.

He’s been in the house four days now, the worry lines she saw on his face in that first meeting more relaxed than they’ve probably been for years. He’s an inquisitive one, a helpful one, a sensitive one; the gentleness of his hand when he brushes her blonde hair from her face makes her knees quiver and her breath come out as a sigh. As they sit side by side with her long tan legs in his lap, she catches him looking at her every once in a while like he’s checking to ensure his touch is still welcome. He’s always so careful, like she could break at any moment. Even though he agreed to move in with her so quickly, he wants to be more respectful about sleeping with her. She finds it adorable… and a little naive.

But there’s also always a flicker of something else in his eyes, like he doesn’t quite understand his own actions.

“What are you thinking, baby?” she asks one night when he does this, leaning into the hand that cups her face.

“I… I dunno,” he admits. “I just feel like there’s something I should be doing.”

She straightens up and looks at him with a careful smile. “You already do so much, baby. Including worry.”

He chuckles a little and wraps his arms around her gently, but he doesn’t say anything.

“You are happy here, right, Sam?”

“Don’t worry, Julia,” he murmurs into her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

— — — — —

She tells Sam she’s a recruiter for North Arizona’s athletic department, and there’s a high school football player in Washington that several schools are fighting for. He seems intrigued that she works for a college, and asks if he can come with, but she makes up some excuse how _it’ll be so boring for you while I’m in meetings._ She has to insist a little, but he agrees to stay home, promising to miss her the whole time.

She’s never felt the need to check on one while she’s with another before.

She doesn’t sleep well the next few nights; it doesn’t matter who she’s with. Roger hardly notices, because she fucks him so good he dozes off almost as soon as it’s over. But she lies awake every night and stares at the ceiling, thinking about Sam and wondering what he’s doing in the house without her. She’s never wondered that about any of the others.

Finally she has to give in to her desire to see him again, something that intrigues her: usually it’s the men with the overwhelming need to see her. She wonders if this is how they feel when she’s gone.

“It’s not right for them to insist you fly to Memphis less than twenty-four hours from now,” Roger tells her over lunch, sipping root beer from a bottle. “I mean, what if you’d had plans, or had been out of town?”

“Frank broke his leg, love, it was a bit of an emergency.” she tells him almost distractedly. “He can’t move very easily through an office space in a wheelchair. Wouldn’t that taste better in a glass?” she adds, nodding towards his drink.

He shrugs as he sets it down on the table. “All the glasses are in the dishwasher,” he explains. “Thought I’d take a turn doing them this time.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes; she knows she’ll just rewash them by hand herself after he’s asleep tonight. Just because she’s pondering her newest catch doesn’t mean she’s willing to let her others out of her net.

“Can’t they reschedule with the company or something?” Roger continues. “You _just_ got home.”

She sighs as she stands and walks over to him, putting on her best pout. “I know… but I promise to make it up to you when I get back.” She grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him into a deep kiss; he’s taken off-guard but sinks into it, reaching up to tangle his hands in her hair.

When the kiss breaks away, he says almost breathlessly, “I guess if you have to go.”

“That’s my boy.”

One of them.

— — — — —

Sam proves to be more of a challenge than she expected. Most men can’t keep their hands off of her when they’re under her spell—that’s something that’s true in every city she works. They have sex almost every night, because they never know how long she’ll be gone; she never has to want for that. But Sam isn’t a cheater who was waiting to happen. He’s kind, and smart, and almost _too_ respectful. He never does more than kiss her and pet her under her clothes before thinking maybe things are getting too real too soon. She doesn’t understand why that would bother him when he moved in with her just a day after they met, and she wonders _maybe he’s thinking of the girl he lost._

His hobbies when she’s _not_ in the house are just as troubling. For one thing, she’s pretty sure the white substance that scattered all over the foyer when she came in was _salt_ , though she has no idea why there would be a line of it in front of the door. She finds it on all the windows in the bedroom and in front of the bedroom door too, but he vacuums it up when she asks him too. For another, while the others are content to watch sports or work on a car or draw or bake for hours at a time, Sam likes to _read_. She doesn’t have many books in the house, so he finds his own material. She didn’t notice the laptop in his things when he moved in, but when she comes home one afternoon and finds him research Greek mythology online she feels her stomach drop.

“Whatcha doing, baby?” she asks as casually as she can.

“Just a little research,” he admits. “Stuff like this is really fascinating to me.”

“Uh-huh,” she answers, not really sure what to think. “Have you been… researching all week?”

He looks up with a sheepish smile. “Not _all_ week.”

Without terrible finesse she pushes his chair back from the table, straddles him, and kisses him deeply. She lets him think it’s some kind of sapiosexual thing—but she has to make sure she has control. They still don’t go upstairs, but she knows she’s kissed him enough to have him thinking about her for days. That’ll have to be enough.

When she leaves again a few days later she takes his laptop with her.

— — — — —

Mark’s wife files for divorce, and she wants him to pay child support for the daughter he abandoned. No amount of magic can get him to stop worrying about that, because it’s not about love. It’s about _how am I going to do this without a job_ and _I can’t ask you to pay that for me._ She tries to convince him that they’ll take care of it, but he’s so stressed out he’s not as interested in sleeping with her. He just wants to bitch about his soon-to-be ex.

Just like that he’s a lot less interesting to her too. When he had a wife, when he was cheating with her, it gave it that layer of deviance that made it even hotter. Now he’s just as whiny as Sally, and he’s _dull_.

She finds herself missing Sam.

— — — — —

Tom is angry that she’s spending even more time at work lately. She’s already gone so much, but now she leaves him alone for weeks at a time. It only makes her want to spend more time away. She washed every dish in the house twice before she left, and yet she doesn’t seem to have as strong a hold on him as before.

She refuses to admit that she might be losing her touch.

— — — — —

It’s the middle of the night when she hears clicking downstairs. Her eyes snap open, and she thinks she feels Sam stirring beside her. As carefully as she can she slips from the bed and heads for the door, trying not to step in _that damn salt, why is it all over the floor again,_ and almost gets there before he speaks.

“Julia?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What is it?”

“Nothing, baby,” she insists. “Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t follow her. She heads downstairs, Sam’s t-shirt flapping loosely where it ends just below her hips. She sees a shadow outside the door, and the clicking is definitely a lock pick. Putting her hand on the doorknob as silently as she can, she waits until the sound stops and tears the door open.

The element of surprise only lasts for a minute; she manages to get one good kick in before he’s assuming a fighting stance. He’s way too pretty for this kind of fighting, and she realizes between their traded blows that she’s seen him before—it’s the brother. She wasn’t expecting this.

“I know what you are,” he threatens her, brandishing a silver knife that gleams in the moonlight.

Sam’s running down the stairs, called by the commotion. “Dean!” he shouts when he sees who it is; neither of them stop fighting to acknowledge him. She’s blackened his eye, and he’s cut her arm, but the knife isn’t enough for him to kill her even if he plunged it through her heart. It’s missing a little something, the blood of one _she’_ charmed. And of course he came straight to the house where his brother was kept, instead of visiting another first. She tackles him to the ground; he swings at her and misses.

“No, don’t!” Sam cries, but she isn’t sure who he’s talking to.

Finally she doesn’t have a choice; she grabs Dean by the jaw, forces his lips open, and spits into his mouth. Dean looks like he wants to vomit as she lets go, but she changes her tune and pulls her face into a terrified expression. “Please, no! Don’t hurt me, Dean, _please!”_

Dean stops, breathing heavily. He clamors to his feet and she crawls back from him, the picture of fear cowering on the floor. Sam rushes to her and helps her up, crooning sweet words of comfort into her ear.

“I’m sorry,” Dean mutters, enraptured as he looks at her now. “I’m sorry…”

There’s a moment of tense silence as she tries to figure out what to do. “Sam…” she begins tensely. “Go… go back upstairs, okay?”

“Are you okay?” he insists before he leaves.

“I’m fine,” she says, though she doesn’t take her eyes off Dean—or the knife by his side. “I’m gonna set your brother up with a place to stay, and then I’ll be right up.” Sam doesn’t move, so she turns to him. “I will,” she insists.

Once Sam’s upstairs, she gets Dean to follow her to the basement, makes him promise to stay put, and locks him inside.

She’s outgrown Flagstaff.

— — — — —

Roger’s so happy to have her back that morning that he doesn’t say a thing about how long she’s been gone; he takes her straight upstairs in the daylight instead. They’re going at it so hard the bed feels like it might break under them. Looking up at him in the throes of passion, dripping with sweat, he’s just as pretty as he was when she collected him. He was the first to join the houses on the hills; she supposes it’s poetic that he’s the first to leave.

She rolls them over so she’s on top instead, and he growls in appreciation as she takes control. She bends down and kisses him deeply one more time. Just before he reaches climax she grows her teeth into sharp points behind her full lips, moves to his neck, and slices his throat with her teeth. Quickly she pulls off of him and climbs out of the bed as blood gushes forth; she spits a little of it out of her mouth as she watches his life dissipate.

She’s almost sad to see him go, but it’s not really about him. It’s about her, and the fact that she’s losing at the crooked game she designed just for herself.

— — — — —

When Roger died, so did Clara. When Tom died, so did Emma. When Mark died, so did Sophia.

And with each of these women, so did a little of herself.

Over the course of the day she eliminates them all, changing as quickly as she can between houses and surprising her men with her early return before killing them. She wants to feel something as they die, but all she feels is dissatisfaction that her control is gone. 

She saves Sam for last, planning to attend to him after his brother in the basement. She had to lock Sam in their room to make sure he didn’t go downstairs and let Dean out, make sure they didn’t come to their senses before she came back that night. It’s so inelegant, killing them one by one, nothing like all the work she’d done to get them here in the first place. She feels almost savage again, like she deserves to be singing on a rock instead of living on the hill with her prizes, the toys she threw down the stairs so no one else could play with them.

Sam’s waiting expectantly when she enters the bedroom even though she’s early, and he looks worried. “Sam?” she asks carefully, trying to pick up on his emotion. “What is it, baby?”

He cringes at the term of endearment. “It’s been you all along.” He holds his arms stiffly in his pockets, not reaching out for her like he usually would. She misses his touch; it made her feel safe. Right now she feels anything but.

“What do you mean?” she answers with a giggle that holds no humor. Sam isn’t convinced; she didn’t expect him to be.

“The missing men, everyone I’ve—we’ve—been looking for,” he corrects himself, as though he suddenly remembered Dean. “There was only one woman. You.”

Her stomach disappears completely. “All that researching has you imagining things,” she says, creeping slowly along the edge of the room, never taking her eyes off him.

“I _saw_ you,” he growls. “You didn’t even have the sense to close the curtains as you tore Mark’s throat out… or as you changed your appearance. Did you choose that look just for me?” he adds bitterly; but there’s something in his voice, and she swears it sounds like something she’s heard before.

It sounds like heartbreak.

She sighs and looks at him with pleading eyes. “Fine. Yes, you’re right,” she concedes. “But now it’s only you, baby.” She takes a tentative step toward him; he looks nervous but doesn’t move. “We can be together… all the time,” she adds, taking another step. “You won’t have to share me—I’ll never leave you again. Doesn’t that make you happy?” She crosses the remaining distance and presses her body against his, putting a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. With a groan he kisses her back, and it grows more and more passionate until he finally pushes her off of him.

Suddenly he whips a knife—Dean’s silver blade—from his pocket. It has what it was missing when Dean fought her, shining red blood coating the point. Red drops fall from the palm of his hand; he used his own blood, blood of a man under her song. Her control is her own undoing. Sam grabs her arm before she can get away, and she realizes with fear what’s about to happen.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, and he thrusts the knife into her chest.

She screams as it pierces her flesh: it echoes in a strange, otherworldly fashion, a voice she hasn’t heard since she sang from the rocks centuries ago. Already she can feel herself fading, and she collapses as blood flows from the wound.

Even though he stabbed her, his arms are still gentle as he catches her. He settles to the ground with her in his lap, ignoring the tears that stream from his eyes.

Julia’s as good as gone—and that shouldn’t hurt so much.

“I don’t understand,” she gasps, her breathing already weak. “Sam—just tell me why,” she pleads. “I thought you loved me.”

“I do,” he whispers, looking into her eyes with a sorrow she’s never seen before. “That’s why I had to do it.”

The dazzling hazel eyes are the last thing she sees as the world grows white, an ethereal song ringing in her ears.

— — — — —

The police station gets an anonymous tip about multiple dead bodies. If that isn’t enough to get their attention, the location certainly does. People call about them all the time, but never to report a murder.

It’s those strange little houses on the hill.

The cops find three men, all with their throats torn out by what looks like a wild animal, each in a different house. The puddles of blood surrounding them are dried and sticky, and they look like they’ve been there for at least forty-eight hours. One officer recognizes the man in the first house as a missing person; the case was closed weeks ago after no evidence of a crime turned up.

None of them can explain how animals would have the sense to put a victim in the bed, tear out the throat, and leave the body behind.

A black car, older than any building in this neighborhood, idles at the end of the street; two men sit inside, watching the situation unfold. They both look exhausted.

“90210 as cages, that’s a new one for me,” the driver says. His passenger doesn’t respond. “Sammy? You good?”

Sam continues to gaze out the window. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“We chilled in the motel for two days. It has to have worn off by now, right?”

Sam nods. “Right… I just…” He sighs. “Dean, it was—it felt like watching Jess die. Again.” He turns to meet Dean’s eyes with a forlorn expression.

Dean frowns and tries to think of the best thing to say. “We did what we had to do, though. Don’t let it get to you. It was just a friendly old monster case… with some complications,” he admits, clapping Sam affectionately on the chest. He puts the car in gear, and they drive down the road and out of town.


End file.
